


Beneath the Skin

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Home From The Sea [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Canadian John, Character Death, Dark Mycroft, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Magic Realism, Parent-Child Relationship, Selkies, Soul Bond, not John or Sherlock, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been captured and in the hands of his brother. John is injured and can only think of rescuing Sherlock. Both are suffering from being separated from one another. John will do anything to save Sherlock, but is he willing to put his daughter at risk? The sequel to These Shores Are Not Like Yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heavy On The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the sequel to These Shores Are Not Like Yours. If you haven’t read that one, you need to close this one and go read that one first because otherwise it won’t make any sense:D If you have read that one and are here to find out why I am a terrible person to leave John bleeding in the ocean and Sherlock in the hands of his brother, sit back and enjoy. I cannot promise regular updates. That is not how my brain works. Sorry:) It will be full of angst:D *yay!
> 
> The last story drew inspiration from the song, Selkie, by Tori Amos. This one gets its inspiration from the album Beneath the Skin by Of Monsters and Men. Chapter titles will come from the lyrics in any of the songs. Chapter 1 comes from Human. The lyrics in this chapter are from Safe Upon the Shore by Great Big Sea.
> 
> Thanks once again to mattsloved1 for putting up with my nonsense when all she wants is a frog to kiss a prince:)

Pain and cold.

 

And loss.

 

They circulated and took hold, working their despair over him and settling in his heart.

 

He drifted in and out of storm-tossed sleep and on waves real and imaginary. Voices kept saying to him to do something, find something, someone stolen from him. Unable to leave the bed, he struggled with the ropes of pain and illness holding him down. Strangers said to lie still, please, don’t fight us. Rage and despair were his only reliable companions. He dreamt of a sterile room and scratched at the walls leaving bloodied trails behind.

 

Finally came a day where he fell into a natural sleep, one that wasn’t pain wracked or drug induced. Through his dreams, a song interlaced, the lyrics vaguely familiar and unsettling. It wasn’t an old tune although it had the makings of one. It was sad and tragic as songs of the sea often are.

 

He strained to catch the voice, hoping to hear smoky chocolate, but it was a light soprano. Harry then. Someone he knew and finally recognized. She was stroking his hair, his head in her lap.

 

_A girl upon the shore did ask a favour of the sea;_

_"Return my blue eyed sailor boy safely back to me._

_Forgive me if I ask too much, I will not ask for more,_

_but I shall weep until he sleeps safe upon the shore."_

 

He opened his eyes and blinked up at his sister. “Not exactly the most cheerful song, Harry.” His voice was scratchy, and he couldn’t raise it up much above a whisper, but she smiled down at him. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

 

“Oh John, thank God! Here,” and she carefully shifted his head, so it was lying back on a pillow. “Hang on a moment. I’m going to get Greg.” She ran from the room, leaving John to puzzle out where he was.

 

The room was plain and simple, nothing much adorning the walls, which were a soft white. The bed he was lying on felt comfortable and the brightest object in the room was the handmade quilt covering him. A small window on the opposite wall opened to the scent of pine and the rustle of the wind. It told him trees surrounded the cottage, explaining the muted light. Despite the sheltering branches, he could hear the sea surging outside, and something in his heart twisted a little. Panic washed through him, and he struggled to lift the covers off to get out of bed. He needed to see the ocean, the call of it overpowering any self-preservation he might have. He had never felt anything quite like this, only once before, the night…

 

“Sherlock,” he groaned as memories poured back into his muddled head. He could see Sherlock, on the dock, remember the shock of his father’s betrayal and Mycroft standing, staring at him with his cold eyes.

 

There was a noise outside the door, and Greg and Harry entered the room.

 

“John, no, don’t get up,” Greg reached his side and placed a gentle hand on his right shoulder, preventing him from leaving the bed. Not that he could have on his own. He was too weak. “Lie still. You’re still healing.”

 

John struggled to no avail. “No, Greg, let me go! I’ve got to find him.”

 

“Oh, John,” Harry said, her hand at her mouth.

 

Greg looked over his shoulder at her. “Get Molly.”

 

“But…”

 

“Do it! She’s the only one that’s going to get him to stay here. Go!”

 

John really couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let him go. Couldn’t they hear it? The ocean kept telling him to find _him_.

 

“Daddy?”

 

John stopped struggling and looked at his daughter. “Molly?” He hadn’t given one thought to her at all, lost in the feelings of the strained connection to his mate. “Oh, Molly.” He reached out to her, and she snuggled into his arm. John shook with conflicting feelings. Molly needed him, and he had to protect her, but the sea pulled at him. He felt stretched between the two, and it would only be a matter of time before he snapped and tore apart. The pain of his shoulder and the fever that seemed to grip him also warred with the agony of his heart. He sobbed into Molly’s hair, unable to control the sense of loss that roared through him. Molly stayed unnaturally still and didn’t try to squirm away.

 

John held her with his good arm until drained and weakened further; he fell back to sleep once more.

 

The next time he woke, the pull of the ocean still thrummed through him, still itched at him, but he was more alert and in less pain. Alone in the room, he struggled to sit up, the wound in his shoulder pulled and he hissed in discomfort.

 

At the sound of swearing, Greg entered the room. He must have been right outside. “Hey, John. How’re you doing?” he came to the side of the bed and helped John sit up, arranging the pillows behind him.

 

“I feel like shit.”

 

“Yeah, well that’s about what you look like. Here,” said Greg and he handed John a glass of water. “Not too much.”

 

“How long?” he asked, after sipping from the glass.

 

Greg looked troubled.

 

“Greg, how long?”

 

“About four weeks.”

 

“Four weeks? No! That can’t be right. Four weeks?”

 

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness. It helped you fell in the water after being shot. Helped speed things up. We also had the doctor here, a local boy, knows the history of this place and is sworn to secrecy, just to be on the safe side,” he had added that at John’s stricken face, knowing, remembering they couldn’t let anyone know where they were. “We’re on one of the islands. One of the better ones, we’re hidden for now. Can’t go anywhere with you like this.”

 

“The Kin?” John asked, guilt crashing in on top of everything else. If it hadn’t have been for his return with Molly, none of his would have happened.

 

“Most got away and are out on other islands, hidden for now. The locals know something’s up, but most are loyal and won’t say a thing,” Greg looked at him, serious. “A few of the Kin were killed outright, and a few have just disappeared, whether captured or fled I don’t know. May never know.”

 

John could see the weight of it hanging on Greg. He was now the leader, with Jack’s betrayal and capture. “I am so sorry.”

 

Greg ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up a bit. “Ah, shit John. It’s always been a matter of time. Not sure what the fuck we’re going to do, though.”

 

John stared at the wall and didn’t say anything for a long time. Greg pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat. He watched him, concern evident on his face.

 

“We’re going to get him back, Greg, and we’re going to bring down Mycroft Holmes.”

 

A sceptical noise came out of Greg’s mouth. “And how’n the hell do you suggest we do that.

 

John looked at him, “I haven’t the foggiest.”

 

Almost a week later, after begging and pleading and generally being a royal pain in the ass, as Greg put it and a right fucker as Harry said, John managed to convince them to half carry him to the small beach in front of the house. Standing between Greg and Harry, Greg’s oldest girl, Laurel and Molly, trailing behind, he bullied them into letting him stand in the surf. As the waves washed over his feet, he felt several things at once. One was some relief from the constant throb of his shoulder; the second was a return of a small bit of strength. One of the promises the ocean gave his people at the dawn of their creation, to shelter them in any storm and to lend them strength when they needed it. It didn’t mean she couldn’t be a harsh mistress, but she did care for her people. The third thing was what he had really hoped for. Closing his eyes, he reached out and thought of Sherlock.

 

He gasped, and almost doubled over. He certainly would have fallen if Greg and Harry hadn’t been holding him upright.

 

“Sherlock?” Harry asked, biting her lip.

 

“Yes, God yes. He’s in so much pain. They have him closed in. He can’t get out, and it’s slowly driving him mad. I need to get to him.”

 

“How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

 

Again John said, this time with so much anguish it was palpable, “I don’t know, God Harry, I don’t know. But they’re killing him.” In his anguish, he looked over at his daughter, playing in the waves with her older cousin.

 

Sensing she was being watched, she looked up at him, her eyes bright with a light too fierce for a little girl. A distant memory of a conversation, seeming so long ago but only a little over a month passed, Molly asking which side of her family Harry was on, was she a seal like him or was she scary like Mummy. A nebulous idea crept into his mind, tentative and elusive. It would be the most stupid thing he’d ever done.

 

“There may be a way.”

 

“John?”

 

John looked at Greg and Harry, his family, his blood, people who might help him pull off whatever this terrible idea would be.

 

‘We’re going to give them what they want.”

 

oOo

 

An ocean away a man sat in a stark room, padding on the wall covered with the blood from his torn fingernails, lost and alone, slowly heading into madness.


	2. Haunt Me in My Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over:)  
> Title from the album Beneath the Skin by Of Monsters and Men – Wolves Without Teeth

“And how are you feeling, brother mine?”

 

“Sentiment?”

 

Mycroft stared steadily at Sherlock. Neither looked away.

 

“Are you settling in? Anything you wish to tell me?”

 

“Mycroft, your concern, while touching,” Sherlock smirked, “is not necessary. Whatever happened to me in Nova Scotia was an aberration. I can assure you it won’t occur again.”

 

“Can you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. But please forgive me if I am not quite ready to let you out into the world until I’m satisfied you are you again.”

 

“Tedious.”

 

“Necessary.”

 

“I will go mad if you don’t give me something to do.”

 

“Would your violin help?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll have it sent to your room. It’s fortunate that your hands have nearly healed.” With a tutting sound, he raised his eyebrows and glanced at the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. Not wishing to give Mycroft anything to use against him, he stopped himself from clenching his fists. Noticing the small flinch, the corner of Mycroft’s mouth rose imperceptibly. “We will meet again tomorrow at this time.”

 

“One would think you had better things to do than occupy yourself with my recovery.”

 

“You wound me. Little brother, there is no one more important to me than you.”

 

“I would be touched, Mycroft, if I didn’t know you.”

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock. Pleasant dreams.” Sherlock had just stepped through the door, when Mycroft called out after him, just loud enough for his voice to carry to him, “Remember Sherlock, I always know when you are lying.”

 

Sherlock left Mycroft’s office, his face impassive. As he stepped into the hallway, two of Mycroft’s elite guard fell behind him. Except for when he was in his room, since the release from his cell he hadn’t been alone for one minute.

 

They followed him down the hall to the elevator, and the guard on the right leaned forward and pushed the call button. When it arrived, and the doors opened, one guard went in first, Sherlock supposed, to make certain it was empty and the other watched the hallway. The first guard signalled he could step in and the second followed, hitting the button for his floor. The ride down was silent, except for the odd faint squeal from the elevator.

 

Arriving, the motions of the guards repeated in reverse, one leaving the elevator, the other waiting with him. The first signalled all clear, and Sherlock walked down the hall to a nondescript door, which guard number two opened with a key card. The first entered the room, carefully looked through and then allowed Sherlock to come in.

 

The room was more comfortable than one would guess from the outside. There was a large bed, piled with pillows and a thick comforter, an overstuffed chair and ottoman, two bedside tables, each with a lamp emitting a warm glow. There were a small table and chair for dining or to use as a desk and there was a dresser. A small en-suite to the right completed the rooms.

 

Once inside, Sherlock turned and said to the guards, “Get out.”

 

The first guard stared at him for a long moment until finally he nodded his head, once. Sherlock knew it wasn’t his doing that caused the guard to leave, but he didn’t care.

 

He wanted to be alone. He needed to be alone.

 

Standing for a moment, not moving, he appreciated the silence. He took a deep breath and headed for the small en-suite when there came a knock on the door. There wasn’t a knob on his side, so he waited for the door to open. A young man, not one of his ever-present guards, entered holding a small case.

 

“For you, sir.”

 

Sherlock stood for a moment, trying to school his emotions. Then he stepped forward and relieved the man of the case. He didn’t say thank you.

 

His eyes flickered up to his face. He was pale and very nervous. What did he know, what did he suppose about the younger Holmes brother?

 

“That will be all,” said Sherlock, his voice like winter. The young man flinched and left quickly.

 

Turning his back to the door before it had closed, he placed the violin on the bed. He stood and stared at it for a moment, drinking in the sight of it. The internal struggle he fought threatened to show on his face.

 

Gently he took the violin out of its case and spent a few moments just feeling the wood and polishing it. He tuned it and played a few scales. It had been a long time.

 

And the last time he’d played he’d been a different person.

 

When he felt ready, he turned his back to the camera he knew to be in the room and faced the corner. He swept his bow across, and he played.

 

The first sounds were of the music he heard in the night, longed for every night since Mycroft had brought him back, played out, slow and sweet, a tune of mourning and loss. He pulled every drop of emotion out of the instrument he could. He played his heart, not caring that he might be telling his captor more than he should.

 

He played for John. He played for them both.

 

After playing he readied himself for bed. He fell into a restless sleep and didn’t descend deeper until the early hours. It didn’t last long, however, as he was woken by a dream, a dream of John. He started out of a restless sleep and sat shivering in the dark room. He willed his racing heart to slow. When he felt he could get out of bed without arousing suspicion of those who watched, he made his way in the dark to the bathroom. He shut the door and squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness as he flicked on the light.

 

There was no camera in here, or at least he hadn’t been able to discover one, but he never spent any longer in here than necessary, because Mycroft would grow suspicious.

 

He used the toilet, flushed, washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he frowned. He hadn’t wanted to look too closely before, but he could tell he’d lost weight. Turning his back to the mirror, he turned on the shower as hot as he could stand, removed the soft pyjama bottoms he wore and stepped in. There wasn’t as much time as he would have liked to spend in the shower. Too much and Mycroft would be wary and probably send in the guards he knew were outside his door. He did spend a few of his precious minutes letting the hot water run on his back. The heat and the steam helped clear his head. He hadn’t felt this awake since Mycroft had dragged him back here.

 

Of course, it was hard to be clear headed when one had spent the early days here drugged.

 

Turning off the water, he stepped out, dried himself off and dropped the towel to the floor. He entered his bedroom and flicked on the light switch by the door.

 

He waited for a bit, wandering around, showing his brother his backside. The temperature of the rooms stayed at a comfortable setting so it wasn’t a hardship on his part and it was a point scored against Mycroft. After a few minutes, he went to the closet and pulled out the pants he’d worn yesterday and a shirt in blue, like John’s eyes, like the ocean.

 

The thought of John’s eyes brought the memory of the dream flooding back. He had dreamt he was wading into the ocean, not at the cottage, but somewhere, somewhere where there was a white, smooth beach. The water was warm, and it caressed his bare legs, welcoming him in its embrace. He had gone far enough in that it covered his waist. While he stood there waiting, a soft breeze blew up and tousled his curls. There had been a small movement off to the right, a sleek, golden-furred face came up out of the ocean and swam toward him. It was John wearing his selkie form. The selkie came closer, swimming in lazy circles. Sherlock stilled his movements and held out his hand. John glided closer and planted a whiskery kiss on his palm. Sherlock had laughed in the dream, joy suffusing his chest in a way that had never happened before he’d met John.

 

John rolled on his back, his head up and looked at Sherlock, looked at him with those ocean blue eyes, so incongruous for a seal, and in his head, he heard him say, “We’re coming,” before rolling back and slipping beneath the waves. His heart clenched with John’s disappearance. The words and the sudden loss of contact pulled him from his sleep.

 

Now he buried the memory, buried it inside a golden chest deep in his mind.

 

It wouldn’t do for Mycroft to unearth that little treasure.

 

Not only would it prove that Sherlock was no longer Mycroft’s to control, but it would also warn him John was coming.

 

oOo

 

Hidden in a small cabin on the cargo ship, John woke from a deep sleep.

 

He had been dreaming of Sherlock. It was the first time since standing on the beach that he’d received such a clear impression. A small sigh of relief escaped him. Sherlock was better, if not completely whole or well, but at least he was no longer held in the room with his fingers torn and blood on the walls. His mind was still tattered and there was so much pain even if Sherlock had subsumed it beneath a false personality he showed to his brother. Some of the pain was from the strain of keeping secrets from Mycroft, some from whatever hell he was being put through to convert him back to the nightmare creature he’d been. A good portion of it came because of the separation from John, from his mate.

 

John felt all of that plus his own weight, his own guilt.

 

It sat in his stomach churning away as he went back to when he’d left Molly, the kiss he’d placed on Molly’s brow to say goodbye. She’d been sleeping, Mike and Gretchen watching from the doorway. They were going to keep Molly safe, somehow. Once John, Greg and Harry had left the island, they would go someplace even John didn’t know. Mike promised he would look after Molly and Greg’s kids like his own.

 

For the space of three seconds, John had thought about bringing Molly. He knew that she would be a prize Mycroft would not be able to resist, but he couldn’t risk her, not even for Sherlock.

 

When he had told her she wasn’t coming, she’d screamed and yelled, her feet and fists beating on the floor as she kicked and roared, telling John that she had to go, Sherlock needed her didn’t he understand?

 

John had finally hugged her tight and lied, lied to get her to stop.

 

He’d promised he would take her and then he’d given her a drink of water, tucked her in and read her a story. After, he’d kissed her forehead and promised her once more he would wake her when it came to time to leave.

 

He’d lied to her, and he only hoped he would live to come back to her and make it up somehow.

 

Greg had connections to some of the shadier sides of the Halifax harbour and scouted around, trying to get them on board a ship bound for Ireland. It took far longer to make the arrangements than John wanted to waste, but as Harry had said, he still needed to get back on his feet. Finally, Greg found one. The captain, Peter Russell, had been paid handsomely, and he swore his crew was loyal. John wasn’t fool enough to think they’d make it all the way to England without Mycroft finding them, but he hoped they’d be able to sneak in part way before getting caught, for he was confident they would get caught. He rather hoped they would, for he couldn’t wait to confront Mycroft Holmes. He would not be able to resist the prize of three grown selkies. He would want to catch them in the hopes that they could either lead him to Molly or he could use them to create another one just like her.

 

John would burn Baskerville to the ground before he let that happen.

 

Without a doubt, he knew that was where Mycroft held Sherlock, and it was fortunate because John was very familiar with the layout and it’s weaknesses.

 

Sitting up from the dream, he narrowly avoided whacking his head on the bunk above and looked over where Greg slept in the bunk across from him. He glanced up and saw Harry leaning over the side of the upper bunk.

 

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice hushed so as not to wake Greg.

 

She snorted. “No. I hate being inside this thing. There’s no air, and I swear I’m getting seasick.”

 

“You’re a seal, Harry. We don’t get seasick.

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m supposed to be on a ship, confined and stuck in a cabin.” She blew out her mouth making her bangs lift before they flopped back down.

 

John had not had any success talking her out of coming.

 

She had stood there, her arms crossed, clinging to her Watson stubbornness and said, “Fuck off, I’m going.”

 

Now, John smiled at her and lay back down, even though he knew he’d not get any more sleep. They couldn’t do much on the ship, except hide here until they reached Ireland. Apparently he’d smuggled lots of things before, but it wasn’t often he smuggled humans.

 

John had said, “Just get us close to shore. We’ll leave the ship before you dock.”

 

Russell had looked at him puzzled, shrugged and said, “If you’re planning on swimming the rest of the way, you should know the water’s damn cold.”

 

Grinning at him with a look that made Russell uneasy, John handed him the money.

 

In spite of thinking, he’d not get any more sleep and trying hard to deny he still needed to recuperate from getting shot, John fell back into a deep sleep. Unfortunately, shortly after, he jerked awake by someone banging on the door.

 

He sat up. The noise also roused Greg, who blinked at him in confusion. John shrugged and slipped off the bunk. He opened the door a crack.

 

It was the first mate, George something or something George. John hadn’t caught his name. “Captain wants to see you. Says there’s a problem.”

 

John nodded. Shut the door, quickly put on his shoes and a sweater and left the cabin. Greg and Harry stayed behind.

 

The first mate didn’t bring him to the bridge where John had thought they might be headed but to the Captain’s cabin. The first mate knocked, nodded his head in John’s direction and left.

 

Wondering what was going on, a small flame of fear hit his gut. What if somehow Mycroft had found them sooner than anticipated?

 

The door to the cabin opened and Captain Russell stood there, a sour expression on his face.

 

“What is it?” John asked.

 

Instead of answering, Russell jerked his head, indicating John needed to enter.

 

The first thing John noticed was a curtain dividing the room in two, and he assumed that Russell’s bunk was on the other side. Before he could get a look around Russell crossed to the curtain and said, “Do you want to explain this?” before he drew the curtain aside.

 

“Hi, Daddy!”

 

Stunned, John stood there wondering what the joke was before he put his hands on his face and groaned. “For Christ’s sake. Molly! How the hell did you get here?”

 

“I asked Mummy, and here I am. Why did you leave me behind? You promised! I’m still mad at you. How can you save Sherlock if I’m not there to help?”

 

John stood there, dumbfounded staring at his daughter as she glared back at him, arms crossed, looking every inch like Mary.


End file.
